


Love and Marriage

by lost_spook



Category: Adam Adamant Lives!
Genre: Case Fic, Collection: Fandom Stocking 2015, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 15:12:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5670442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_spook/pseuds/lost_spook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam and Georgie meet a terrible fate while investigating their latest case.  Luckily Simms is on hand to rescue them...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love and Marriage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Liadt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liadt/gifts).



“So,” said Edwin Dove of the Dove Marriage Counselling Agency, “what seems to be the difficulty between the two of you?”

Georgie looked up. “Well, first off, there’s the age gap. He’s eighty years older than me!”

“I’m sorry, did you say eighty –?”

“And he never wants to go to any decent concerts.”

“My dear Georgina, I would happily escort you to a musical concert if you wished. What I cannot abide are the mere exhibitions of bad manners and relentless noise that you seem to favour.”

“You see?” said Georgie. “What can you do with a man who doesn’t dig the Stones? And he has a fit every time I wear anything groovy.”

Mr Dove coughed. “Yes, yes, Mrs Adamant, I do see. Mr Adamant, perhaps you also have some issues you’d like to raise?”

“I would never criticise a lady,” said Adam.

Mr Dove began to look slightly impatient. “Forgive me, but that does rather defeat the object of the counselling session, you know. I always insist on complete honesty. I can’t work any other way.”

“Ah,” said Adam. “And yet – it would be the height of bad manners –”

Georgie leant towards him. “Oh, come on, Mr – er – Adam, don’t hold back on my account! Tell him exactly what a nuisance I am.” She looked at Mr Dove again. “I can’t cook, I won’t do what I’m told, and I wear improper clothing in public.”

Adam cast a glance over at her orange mini dress. “Observe for yourself, Mr Dove. Is that a sufficient number of layers for a cold day such as this?”

“And,” said Georgina, “he has the rottenest friends.”

“Miss – I mean, Georgina! Whatever can you be implying?”

She looked at him. “No end of crooks and scoundrels, and some old bore who calls himself The Face who won’t leave us alone. It isn’t _normal_ , is it, Mr Dove?”

Mr Dove took refuge behind his clipboard. Once they had eventually ceased their catalogue of complaints, he re-emerged. “Well, well, we do have a few obstacles to overcome here, don’t we? However, you have come to the right place – and the essential thing is that you have come. You have shown yourselves willing to mend your marriage and that will guarantee your success. I shall merely . . . assist.”

“You have some advice for us?” Adam asked.

“Not exactly. Advice rarely goes very far. Still, I’m sure you feel a good deal better now you have all those issues off your chests? You feel a good deal lighter and calmer, I imagine, and ready to listen to what I have to say? And you _are_ willing to do whatever it takes to fix matters?”

“Naturally,” said Adam, taking Georgie’s hand, while Georgie nodded with what she felt to be the right amount of enthusiasm. 

Mr Dove smiled. “Good! Then allow me to introduce you to the true mastermind around here – Cynthia!”

“Cynthia?” said Adam, while Georgie braced herself to save him from yet another deceptive female villainess.

“Yes. Oh, don’t look so confused! She’s right here around us – she’s a computer. She will analyse your problems and calculation some possible solutions. She will also generate a timetable of mutual activities for you to follow. You should find it immensely helpful.”

“How very inventive and modern,” said Adam, while Georgie wondered what a machine could ever know about the human heart, although she supposed, maybe not any less than most people in the end.

“Ready?” And Mr Dove dimmed the lights. 

 

“This is horrible,” said Simms to himself – since nobody else was paying any attention. “Revolting. Grotesque. My hair’s going to be white by the end of the day.”

The trouble was that when Mr Adamant had returned from the marriage guidance agency, he had brought Miss Jones home with him and calmly moved her in. When Simms had ventured to ask what was going on, the pair of them had insisted they’d been married for two years and seemed surprised that he had to ask. What was worse, they were a sickeningly dull and conventional couple. They had a chart for the week’s activities, which they followed rigidly. Miss Jones even had the nerve to keep barging into his kitchen and trying to cook things, or at least she claimed that was what she was doing – one couldn’t tell from the entirely inedible results. They even used little endearments for each other. Simms shuddered again at reminding himself. It was more than a gentleman’s gentleman could stand, even one who’d been witness to some pretty diabolical love scenes on the stage in his time.

After two days of this, he had decided enough was enough, and rang the Dove Agency and demanded to speak to whoever was in charge. 

“How can I help you?” Mr Dove said on the other end.

Simms straightened up, readying himself for the battle. “Ah, yes, well, I’d like to make a complaint about one of your marriage guidance counselling sessions.”

“You haven’t found it helpful? That _is_ surprising – we have a very high success rate, you know.”

“On the contrary, sir, it’s been far _too_ successful. Can you reverse it – whatever it is you’ve done?”

“Reverse it?” said Mr Dove. “I’ll have you know that I have strong opinions when it comes to the sacred institution of marriage – I don’t do this just for the money. The breakdown of the traditional family unit is at the bottom of all that is wrong with our society today and I am determined to fix it – one couple at a time if I must!”

Simms coughed. “Well, that’s as maybe, sir, but the pair in question weren’t married. Or at least, they weren’t until you got your grubby mitts on them.”

“N-n-not _married_?”

“That’s right,” said Simms. “They were – ah – undercover reporters doing a feature on various marriage guidance techniques and agencies, you know the sort of thing, and now they think they’re an old married couple! It’s revolting. You’ve got to undo whatever unspeakable thing it is you’ve done, or I’ll make sure something equally horrible happens to you!”

There was silence at the other end, but for a distant thud somewhere.

“Hello, hello?” said Simms. “This isn’t a prank call, sir! Come back!”

“Simms,” said Georgie, and Simms turned to find her standing at his elbow and smiling sweetly.

“Aargh!” Simms said, and leapt back by a few inches, although he kept a tight hold on the telephone receiver.

Georgie waved his feather duster at him. “Simms, I need to dust the phone!”

“No, really,” said Simms down the telephone. “It’s an emergency! Sir? Sir, are you there?”

There was nothing else for it, thought Simms, surrendering the phone to Georgie. He’d have to go down there and make somebody listen. And as long as he went alone, he shouldn’t wind up hitched, perish the thought.

 

“I can’t imagine how I allowed it to happen,” said Adam. “I am not usually so susceptible to such trickery!”

Simms nodded and decided not to say something about if maybe Mr Adamant had on some level _wanted_ to be married to Miss Jones that might account for it, but things were bad enough, even following a successful reversal of the romantic brain-washing process. Simms wished there was a helpful means of obtaining selective amnesia so that he could forget it all.

On arriving at the Agency, Simms had found the place in chaos. Mr Dove had apparently had a heart attack on the telephone to him and then the secretary, Miss Heartsease, had done an immediate flit with all the cash. He’d been left dealing with a confused typist, who had been happy enough to help, but didn’t know anything about the fishier end of the business. Eventually, after managing to get Mr Adamant and Miss Jones back down there, they’d pressed buttons until the desired results had been achieved. And after that, they’d done what they could for the previous clients, before they’d finally had some fun of their own, and sent ‘Cynthia’ up in smoke.

“What am I _wearing_?” Georgie said, still marvelling at the dowdiness of her dress. “My grandmother wouldn’t have been seen dead in this outfit! Urgh!”

Adam gave a smile. “I was just thinking that you look perfectly acceptable for once, Miss Jones.”

“I don’t dress for ‘perfectly acceptable’,” said Georgie, wrinkling up her nose at the idea. “These are going straight in the charity bin, I can tell you.”

Adam sat up suddenly, looking unusually awkward, and gave a significant cough. “Miss Jones – I do not know how to apologise sufficiently for what has transpired between us. However, you may rest assured that I shall lose no time in contacting the Archbishop of Canterbury and obtaining a special license.”

“A what – why?”

“Miss Jones, even you must agree that I have fatally compromised you!”

Georgie leaned forward in her chair. “But I don’t think you _did_. I mean, my memories of the last couple of days are a bit fuzzy round the edges, but I’m sure I’d remember if we – well! We’d have noticed.”

“No,” said Simms, and when they both gave him a startled look, he coughed and said, “If I might direct your attention to the chart. You see, you hadn’t got to Saturday night yet.”

“Simms! That’s appalling!”

“Too right it is,” said Georgie, for once equally horrified. “Once a week by appointment? That’s not what I call a marriage. Well, and who says romance is dead?”

“Mr Dove, apparently,” said Simms. “He seemed quite incensed about it – before he keeled over.”

Georgie turned back to Adam and put her hand to his arm. “Look, Mr Adamant, you haven’t compromised me. Nobody knows or cares what we’ve been up to these last few days. And there’s only one good reason to marry someone – and that’s because you want to. That’s the only sort of romantic proposal you could make that I’d say yes to, anyway – even if I _had_ a reputation to worry about, which I don’t. So, let’s not say anything more about it.”

“Miss Jones –” said Adam, a slight frown on his face.

Georgie got up, and gave him a forced smile. “So, I’d better be going, hadn’t I?”

“Yes, yes,” said Adam, rather distractedly as she headed to the door.

Simms looked at Mr Adamant. Mr Adamant looked at Simms. 

“You know, Simms,” he said. “Did I follow that statement of Miss Jones’s correctly?”

“I couldn’t possibly comment, sir. What with me being a mere menial and all that.”

Adam put a hand to his mouth, a small smile playing at the corners of it. “Well, well – but obviously it would be unthinkable. Any such connection to me could put Miss Jones in unjustifiable peril!”

“Well,” said Simms. “You’ve got to admit, it’s not as if _not_ being married to you has kept her out of peril yet. Maybe you could try it the other way round. It might be easier if you could keep a closer eye on her, as it were. Tie her to the bed, see if it helps.”

“Simms, that is a disgraceful suggestion,” said Adam, but falling immediately into another fit of abstraction. Eventually, he glanced up again. “But perhaps I should – well, perhaps I should at least raise the issue with Miss Jones? It would be ungracious not to.”

Simms watched him go with a shake of his head. “I don’t know why I bothered,” he said. “It’s horrible. Revolting. Grotesque.” But, oh, well, he thought. He _was_ an old theatrical hand and who could argue with a happy ending? And at least Mr Dove ought to be proud of his legacy.


End file.
